


Insomnolence

by SandfireKat



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Brother-Sister Relationship, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 20:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandfireKat/pseuds/SandfireKat
Summary: Sometimes it gets to be too difficult for Malcolm. Sometimes he can't take care of himself.But that's okay. She'll take care of him.





	Insomnolence

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a longer-length Prodigal Son fic! I didn't want to write something too long for my first fic. I do have an idea for a much longer, much more intricate fic that I'm tempted to start working on, but I decided I would post this tiny one first, to try and gauge everyone's reaction before I threw myself into such a big project! So please let me know what you think! ♡
> 
> Also, I've started a blog on tumblr with (slightly) smaller pieces of writing and headcanons for Prodigal Son called prodigalsonheadcanons, so if you like my writing there's more to see, there! Thank you very much for reading, I hope you like it!

She was worried.

Usually, younger sisters weren’t prone to fretting over their older brothers. But with her and Malcolm, it was different. He probably liked to think she wasn’t _aware_ of his tendencies, but she _knew _her brother. She knew how bad he could get. How bad he could _let _himself get. And it wasn’t his fault— not entirely. She knew it was difficult for him, to do what most people could do without conscious thought. She knew how much he struggled, and _why _he struggled. She tried to keep it in mind.

She’d gotten off lucky…she didn’t remember it as much. She was too young to remember that night the police had been called, and the immediate aftermath. If she concentrated hard, she could retrieve indistinct memories here and there. She had blurs or general senses of emotions, but that was it. She knew Malcolm remembered _everything. _And she knew his memories were even heavier, because they carried with them blame, too. He knew that he’d done the right thing, of course. But she also knew that while he remembered the arrest, he also remembered what life had been like with their father.

He remembered the good _and _the bad times. And all that weight was far too heavy for him.

Growing up, he had struggled. And that was when she’d been there at his side. When she _wasn’t _with him, and when she didn’t hear from him for an extended period of time, that was when her worries began to grow and get louder than the usual murmuring background noise they typically were. She began to wonder if he was eating enough, or if he was skipping two out of three meals of the day— which was actually, sometimes, the best-case scenario. She began to wonder if he was sleeping enough at night. She began to wonder if he was getting out of the house at all, or if he was staying holed up, working out of the house in a way that meant he wasn’t getting any kind of human contact whatsoever.

It was even more difficult when she knew that she couldn’t _ask. _She knew her brother’s tendencies, and she also knew what would make him shut down immediately, and that was any kind of overt concern. The very instant you began to ask how he was doing, if he was getting rest, if he was eating, you could _see _him physically tune out. You saw his eyes glaze over, you saw him look away. You saw him already grabbing the last brick to the wall he had built, and shoving it into the small gap that had yet to be plugged, effectively shutting you out entirely.

She’d had to find alternative ways of checking in one him that was less obvious. They were less _effective, _too...less reassuring. Texting was the least conspicuous method. Calling was better, because there was more to notice when the exchange was verbal— she might hear the exhaustion in his voice, she might hear that his hidden agitation. Seeing him was best, but that was the most obvious and therefore most difficult method to achieve. Frankly, when it was _really _bad, and she was _really _worried, she was just glad to get _anything. _It was when she got absolutely nothing, that her worry got too much to handle. Where she got _so _worried, that it was harder to hide it.

That was now.

It had been a week since she had last talked to her brother. She’d called him Monday night— he’d sounded perfectly fine. He hadn’t mentioned something was worrying him, or anything was wrong. But she knew how _fast _that could change. She knew how fast he could fall off the beaten path, and how easy it was for one thing to lead to another, and everything to fall apart. That’s what she knew must have happened…because three days later, when she’d texted him, he hadn’t replied. She’d tried to give him the benefit of the doubt— maybe he was just busy and had forgotten to get back to her. She’d tried texting him the next day. And when he hadn’t replied _then, _either, she’d tried calling. Still, there was nothing. And by day six, her calls weren’t going unanswered anymore; they were getting _declined. _

Malcolm hardly ever declined her calls.

She tried to wait it out as long as she could. She tried to give her brother some slack— she tried to believe she was merely overreacting. But once a week passed, she hit her limit. She knew he would hate her for it, but to her, the risk was worth it. She wasn’t like their mother— Malcolm had a more difficult time rejecting her. She would go and she would see him, and make sure he was alright, and that would be the end of it. Usually, her gut was right, and right now, her gut was telling her there was something very wrong.

She picked up food on the way, something she knew was one of Malcolm’s favorites (as far as his ‘favorites’ went) and as she drove, she crafted up some story about wanting to celebrate something that had happened at work, if he asked her what she was doing there. She tried getting _him _to answer the door, first, but when there was no response to her ring, she let herself in. At the very least, it could be said that Ainsley ‘broke in’ (as Malcolm lovingly referred to just barging into his home uninvited) with a much heavier heart than their mother probably did. So she had that going for her.

She crossed the threshold and went up the steps. Given how silent the apartment was, her footsteps seemed to come with their own megaphone. She grimaced a little, but kept going, trying to keep her resolve, in case Malcolm reacted the way she was dreading. All the lights were on, and she heard the sink running. She got up to the landing and perked when she saw her brother standing with his back to her, washing dishes. She was a little surprised; for a couple of heartbeats she stood awkwardly, giving herself one last hesitation before she revealed how nosey she was being. Malcolm kept washing dishes, while she floundered.

Eventually, she found enough courage to clear her throat. “Hey!” She made her voice bright and bubbly. She smiled, too, trying to clear away any nervousness that could be picked up _there, _too. But her smile wilted when Malcolm didn’t turn around. He didn’t even say anything. He kept washing dishes…or, he kept washing the _one_ dish in his hands. He hadn’t yet moved to grab another one from the stack he’d made. Why was the stack so high? A frown started to weigh over Ainsley’s features. She started to walk towards him, her concern only mounting with every click of her heels against the floor that he _still_ did not react to. “Malcolm?” Still nothing.

She stopped a foot or two away from him. She looked down at the plate he was washing, and realized that it was perfectly clean already. There wasn’t a spot on it, and yet as she continued to watch him, he continued to scrub in slow, dragging circles. “Malcolm?” Nothing. There was a pit of dread opening up in the pit of her stomach, and this time she had no qualms or hesitations at all, when she reached out for his shoulder. “Malcolm, what are you—?”

The instant her fingers touched him, he was jerking into attention. His jump was so severe and sudden that Ainsley yanked her arm back to herself and stumbled away a few paces. He dropped the plate; thankfully it didn’t break, but it did make a loud noise when it hit the bottom of the sink. Malcolm whirled around, and the second he did, all of Ainsley’s efforts to keep her emotions disguised and hidden were forgotten completely. The second Malcolm spun around to look at her, her face was falling and her eyes were widening.

He looked _sick. _Her brother was a horrible kind of pale. He looked _gaunt…_he had lost three or five pounds since she had last seen him, easily. But his eyes were what was catching her the most off-guard. Was making her stop short, and was making her heart clench and plummet to her feet. His eyes were bloodshot; they were bright red, and underneath, he had horrible bags that were so dark, her first impulse was to wonder if he’d been punched. He looked absolutely _awful. _She had seen him in bad spots before, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him look _this_ bad.

Malcolm looked startled— like a deer in headlights. For a couple of seconds, while Ainsley struggled to take in how bad he looked, he struggled just to realize what she was doing there at all. Despite his alarm, he was also very _blank _as he stared at her. She could see the gears in his brain, usually turning so easily, far faster than most people could even keep up, even, now struggling just to inch their way along in a full circle. There was a long stretch of silence, between them. Eventually, Malcolm finally seemed to regather just enough of himself to regain the ability to speak. But she almost wished he hadn’t.

“What’re you…what are you doing, here? When did you get here?” His voice was hoarse. It cracked out of a throat that had gone long unused. She heard days of silence, in his crackly, hissing voice. It sounded like it hurt, but he didn’t wince at all. He just stared at her in that same befuddled way. It pained her, to see the uncharacteristic blankness. Malcolm was never bank. He was never slow— not with _anything. _Her brother was so smart that it was _annoying. _

The only time he was ever this way was when he’d gone days without sleep.

Going by his eyes, his newfound gauntness, the bleary way he blinked, she knew that was the case.

“Did you not hear me ring?” she asked. Wordless, he still just stared at her. She cleared her throat, ducking her head and blinking a couple times before she took in a deep breath and steeled herself again. When she looked up, she was smiling. She held up the bag of food she’d picked up. He did a double-take, as if he’d never seen the logo before. “I picked up some food,” she chirped. She waited, just in case he was going to say something, but he was silent. She tried not to let the silence get to her. “I thought I would stop by and we could have dinner together. We haven’t done that in a while.”

His gaze was bleary as it rested on the bag. She could _already_ see the revulsion crawling to life in his expression. Her own expression was beginning to wilt. She looked him up and down, her stomach twisting. His shirt was untucked and wrinkled, and so were his pants. His jacket was hanging just a little bit off of one shoulder. He was dressed, but it looked like he hadn’t changed in days. He looked like he hadn’t done _anything _in days. He hadn’t eaten, or slept, or changed, or showered, or spoken— what _had _he been doing?

The silence was stretching on too far. The longer he stared at the food she was holding, the blanker his stare began to get— the more he wasn’t _actually_ looking at it. He wasn’t _looking, _he was disassociating. Her eyebrows drew together. “Malcolm…” Her voice was softer. Weaker. He blinked a couple times, before he inhaled deeply through his nose. He dragged his head back up to look at her. She was wearing her sorrowful concern on her sleeve, now. Part of her wondered if he was even aware enough to notice it in the first place. “Is something wrong?” she breathed.

Again, he required a couple seconds of buffer space, probably just to realize what she was saying in the first place. To formulate a response took even longer. But at least this time, he seemed to realize a bit of her concern— he was putting two and two together. He rubbed at his eyes, despite the fact they already looked painful and inflamed. He shook his head fast, like he was trying to clear it of the fog that was pressing down on him. “No.” Her disheartened expression still didn’t budge. In fact, some part of it just grew more disappointed. “No, m’fine. ‘sall fine. I w’s just…doing the dishes.” His words were smeared and slurred. He couldn’t even talk clearly.

She frowned, looking at the stack of dishes. Her observation came slowly, and softly. “They’re…all clean, already…I watched you scrub the _same_ clean plate for nearly a minute.”

He looked like a three-year-old would look at a Connect-The-Dots puzzle if you’d put it in front of them and provided no instruction as to how to actually make a picture appear out of the confusing mess. She gave him a second, knowing he needed it. He stared at the sink, doing absolutely nothing, before he turned and looked back at his sister. “I just finished,” he explained, after careful consideration.

She nodded, knowing it was pointless to catch him in the lie, right now. She took in a slow breath, biting down on her lower lip. Before she tried her best to regain her smile as she tried again: “Let’s eat!” Again, that revulsion, as Malcolm’s eyes flickered back to the bag. She was already depositing it on the counter, getting out the two bowls. She’d gone to the pasta place Malcolm liked, only because that was where she’d seen him eat the most food at one time. She’d gotten stir-fry for herself, but for her brother, she’d just gotten plain noodles with just the tiniest amount of butter. It was nice and bland, so it wouldn’t upset his stomach, hopefully. She hadn’t gotten _too _much butter on it, but it would at least give him some calories she was positive he’d gone days without.

She nudged his over to him. His disgust was only growing. “C’mon!” she urged. He eyed her but sat. She noticed when he did, he sat heavily, like there were weights dragging him down and he was finally offered a chance to rest. He leaned on his arms, hunching over his bowl but not making a move for it. She didn’t make a move for her own food, either. He noticed she was staring at him, so he reached out and grabbed the fork. He poked at the noodles in silence. When he moved the utensil, she could see how much it was shaking.

He wasn’t even awake enough to try and hide it like he usually did.

She bit down on her lower lip, nudging her own noodles around. Suddenly, her appetite was gone. Her voice was soft when she began to murmur, keeping her eyes trained down on her bowl. “Malcolm, you don’t look well.” Her chest was tight, waiting for his response. She wasn’t given one. When the silence stretched on for more than five seconds, she risked a glance up. She stiffened, and her eyes widened. Malcolm was still holding onto the fork but his hand had stopped shaking. His head was hanging low.

He was asleep.

She leaned down a little to look at his face. His eyes were closed and his breathing was deep. He was sitting up still, but he’d fallen asleep like that. She didn’t know whether she was concerned, or relieved. She started to lean back and look over towards his bed, wondering she could get him there herself without waking him up. When all of a sudden there was a loud choke that made her jump clear out of her skin. She whirled around; her brother sat up so fast he nearly toppled right back over his chair. His eyes were huge and scared as he gasped in hard. He looked just as confused and frightened as Ainsley did when their eyes met. Both of his hands were shaking like leaves, now.

His breathing was hitched and panicked for a couple more seconds, before he cringed and shook his head in that same way again— like he was trying to dislodge something. He ducked down and ran his hands through his hair. It was much messier than it usually was…he’d mussed it up like this far too many times. “You’re having microsleeps?” she asked weakly. His stare was much heavier and his shoulders hunched when he picked up his fork again. Her hands began to wring in her lap. She forced out the question. “Malcolm, when was the last time you slept?”

He rubbed his face, putting harder pressure on his eyes. “’mnot tired…”

Her eyes narrowed just a little. “Malcolm…you’re _exhausted.”_ He picked out a small bite of noodles. She watched him, trying to find comfort in the fact he was eating. The bite was small but at least he swallowed it. After he did, his stare just got heavier. She could see that disgust crawling back over his face. “When was the last time you _ate? _You look…” She trailed off, not even sure how to finish.

He forced himself to take another bite. She saw him flinch when he swallowed. Like it hurt.

She took a bite, too. Almost a full minute of silence passed. Before she tried hedging even further. “Malcolm…what’s wrong?” He hunched his shoulders again. His eyes flickered to the side, and they flashed just a little. The fog lifting to be replaced with something close to suspicion. Or fear. She frowned and twisted around to follow his gaze. There was nothing there. When she turned back, he was still staring at that spot. There was still a strange expression on his face. She leaned a little closer. “Malcolm.” He didn’t even blink. He was getting tenser. She saw his hands start to shake more. She glanced between him and the empty spot he was staring at. Her concern got her to raise her voice a little. _“Malcolm!”_

He jumped, his arms jerking like he was about to lash out. He nearly slapped his bowl clear off the table. Ainsley stiffened when she saw the panic that flashed briefly over his face. He ripped his eyes away from the spot, to her. His breathing a little faster, he glanced back at the spot again. But this time he blinked a couple of times and was able to turn back to her. “What were you looking at?” she demanded. His mouth was halfway open. But his mind was too slow. He had nothing at all.

She made the decision. She put her foot down. “Malcolm, you have to sleep.” He was immediately going stiffer, his foggy expression sharpening defensively. She stayed firm. “You look absolutely horrible— you’re having microsleeps, you’re staring at nothing— you can’t even hold a conversation!” She grimaced and her voice got a tad softer when she started: “I _know _sleeping is hard for you sometimes, but you _know _it’s not okay to—”

“I don’t need sleep.” His voice was still mumbled, but it was sharper now. There was a warning in his tone now. A silent way of telling her to back off before she went too far.

But it _wasn’t _too far. It wasn’t far _enough. “Yes, _you _do, _Malcolm, and you _know _you do. You’re _smarter_ than this; just sometimes you don’t think enough to—”

_“Ainsley.” _

_“Don’t _‘Ainsley’ me!” she snapped. _“Tell _me how long it’s been since you last slept!”

He was glaring blearily down at his bowl. “Did you come here just to interrogate me?”

“I _came _to see if you were _okay, _and you’re _obviously _not— you’re worse than I even thought you would be!” she rivaled. “Your place is a complete mess, you look like you haven’t slept or eaten in a week, your hands are shaking, you’re seeing things, you’re— you’re _worrying _me, Mal…” Her voice grew weaker, as she just barely got this out. Her heart ached as she leaned a little closer. “Mal…you can talk to me,” she murmured. “What changed? What’s wrong? We can work through this together, I don’t want you feeling like you’re alone…I don’t want you to feel like you have to suffer by yourself like this…”

He locked his jaw back. His hands clenched hard on his knees.

She searched his face, starting to repeat her question. “How long has it been since you last sl—?”

_“I _can’t_ sleep!” _She flinched when he suddenly screamed this, cutting her off like he couldn’t hold it in for one more second. He hit his hands on the counter, hunching forward before digging his nails into his skull. Awful silence followed the unexpected screech. Ainsley opened her eyes little by little, but she did not relax. Malcolm’s anger and resentment and sorrow and disappointment and suffering were all left to hang in the air, and choke the two of them. He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t have to. She could see the glower he was aiming down at his bowl. The exhausted…pained…_infuriated _glower.

“I _can’t_ sleep,” Malcolm croaked, just making the silence worse.

Ainsley didn’t object this time. This time, she stayed mute. Her stomach stayed hollow. She stared at him forlornly, feeling at a loss of what to do, and completely useless because of that. He shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment before he picked up his fork and got another tiny bite. It wasn’t much…it was just a couple of noodles. But it was something. Her heart weighing like a rock, Ainsley began to force herself to take bites as well. The two of them fell into a stony, disheartened silence as they ate. Malcolm much slower than her, but trying all the same. Which was more than he could say he’d done in a while.

She finished her entire thing. Malcolm ate about a third of it before he was setting his fork down and holding his head in his hands. She saw him close his eyes when he did, and she watched as in just a couple of short seconds, he was falling prey to another microsleep. She could see just the tiniest hint of his cheekbones. He was so pale, and he looked so much more peaceful when he was asleep. But, not to her surprise, he quickly woke up again in a matter of seconds and pushed himself back, looking sick and nauseated. He caught her eye but quickly looked away. She closed her own and took a deep breath before she stood up and gathered everything together.

She threw away her empty bowl, but she put Malcolm’s in the fridge for later, painfully aware of how empty it looked when she did. She tided up the kitchen as well, putting away the stack of already-clean plates, and putting some of the other dishes in the dishwasher to run. The entire time, Malcolm just sat at the kitchen island. She wondered what he was thinking…why his expression was so heavy, and why he felt like he couldn’t talk to her about it. Did he think it was because she wouldn’t help? Did he think it was because she wouldn’t understand?

Eventually, she walked over to lean against the island, beside him. She offered him a pained smile and suggested quietly: “You wanna watch TV?” She was scared he would say no, and insist that she leave. But she was relieved when her older brother just studied her fuzzily for a couple of seconds before he gave a tiny, singular nod. TV was good…TV was relaxing. He might fall asleep, if they turned on something particularly boring. She’d gotten him to eat a little, now she just needed to get him to _sleep_ a little, too.

Even if she couldn’t, at least she would be here. At least he might not feel as alone.

She found a rerun of an old sitcom. Something she knew they’d both seen plenty of times. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and her chest ached when she saw how disoriented he seemed. He kept his eyes open, but his head kept dipping and swaying. It was like he couldn’t keep himself steady or upright. She leaned over just a little to nudge him. He barely stirred. “You remember the first time we watched this?” she prompted. As she expected, there wasn’t any sense of recognition on his face, initially. “Mom had said it was too grown-up for me to watch…you snuck me downstairs after I was supposed to be in bed and we watched it with the volume turned down low.”

There it was. _There _was the recognition. She was made much happier than she expected to be, when she saw him crack a smile. She even heard him scoff out a little laugh under his breath. “Oh…yeah, I do…” His smile lingered for a couple more seconds. But then it dropped. That sorrowful nothingness settled back over his face. He stared like someone who had forgotten what they were doing and was struggling to remember. Ainsley’s happiness was torn away.

She stuffed down her disappointment and turned back to the show as well.

They watched an entire episode…and then they started another. Ainsley was very well aware of her brother the entire time. She watched as he slowly grew less and less tense. She watched him gradually sag back into the couch, she watched his eyes get heavier. At one point, he began to lean without even noticing it. At first it was just so their shoulders were brushing…but bit by bit, he started to get heavier. He wasn’t resting his head on her shoulder or leaning _onto _her so much as he was leaning _in. _He was relaxing and he was relaxing against her. His eyes would close and they would stay closed for a couple seconds before he pried them open again. But every time they closed, they were closed for another second longer than they were the last time. His head was dipping more violently…it was taking more effort for him to stay up.

And by this point, going without sleep for as long as he had, a surplus of effort was the _last _thing Malcolm had.

His eyes closed again, and this time they were closed for more than a full minute. Ainsley counted the seconds. It was either another, longer, microsleep, or he was actually giving in. She was just beginning to let herself believe that was the case, when suddenly he pried his eyes open again. It was with an obscene amount of difficulty, but he was pushing through it. At first, she was frustrated at his stupid stubbornness. When she realized that the reason he was fighting was hard was because something was different. The fuzziness in his expression was receding again, only to be replaced by something akin to alarm. She could see it on his face. Something was wrong.

“Malcolm?” Ainsley watched him slowly push himself up. He was swaying— his body was literally begging him to rest but he was refusing. His eyebrows were knitting together; she realized his hands were trembling again. There was something different…he seemed even paler than he’d been before. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Malcolm?” He was trying to center himself and work through whatever was happening with his sleep-deprived brain. “Malcolm, what’s going on, you’re—”

He suddenly shoved himself up. It looked like he meant to run away from the couch, but by this point all he could manage were uncoordinated stumbles. He staggered clumsily to the kitchen. Ainsley shot up to her feet the moment Malcolm threw himself against the counter, hunched over the sink, and proceeded to get violently ill. She rushed over to him. He had so little to give in the first place given that he’d gone ages without eating, and yet he was giving every little bit of it back up, now. He choked and heaved…it stretched out into a torturous length of time. Each time she thought he was through, he would jerk forward again, and retch even more. By the very end, all he was getting out was stomach bile. And even when he ran out of everything and physically couldn’t throw up anymore, he just choked and spluttered like he _wanted _to.

By the time he was done, he was shaking from head to toe, and he was covered in sweat. Ainsley had reached over at some point to rub his back as he got sick. Malcolm didn’t necessarily like to be touched, so she had done so carefully, but when he hadn’t reacted to her, she’d stayed. He still didn’t react badly, now. Since her hand was on him, she felt when he started to go down. His knees buckled out from under him, and she quickly grabbed onto his arm to help guide the fall. He sunk down to the floor, taking in ragged after ragged gasp as he sagged against the cabinets. He looked even more disoriented than he’d been before. He closed his eyes, to keep the room from spinning.

“You okay?” Ainsley breathed, looking at her brother with worry filling every inch of her expression.

Malcolm just kept wheezing, trying to get his breath back.

She wilted, looking him over from head to toe. “Malcolm. You have to _sleep,” _she begged, her voice cracking with desperation on the word. “It’s making you sick— you’re not sleeping so you’re sick— you can’t keep anything down…you _know _this cycle, Malcolm, you’ve done it before, you…” She trailed off, realizing he was just staring blankly off into space, not reacting at all to her. Her heart sank, and her shoulders drooped. It was pointless. Nothing she could say was going to convince him. She was seething in frustration, but the sting was dulled with her sheer sorrow. Her voice cracked when she forced out a weak, strained: _“Malcolm.”_

He shook his head a fraction of an inch. The simple movement seemed to make him feel about ten times as sick. “I can’t sleep…” he rasped, his voice even scratchier after he vomited. Ainsley weakened. Her throat burned when she saw his expression flicker from its apathy only briefly, to break into a horrible grimace. A kind of flinch that someone might do if they were trying their best not to cry. His voice was thicker when he croaked: “I can’ sleep…i’s…t’much…I can’t keep…doin’ it…I can’…keep seeing’ it…all’f it…over and ov’r again, I can’t…” She felt like she was going to be sick when she saw his lower lip tremble.

It took her a long while to be able to speak. “I know…” She reached out slowly, to put a hand on her brother’s arm. When he didn’t yank away or shrug her off, she started running her hand up and down soothingly. Slowly, and comfortingly. She saw his eyes flicker to her, but that was it. He blinked groggily— so groggily and slow that she was starting to think he wouldn’t open his eyes at all, until he disappointed, once again. Her heart ached, as she looked at her big brother. The confession slipped out of her mouth in a tiny whisper. “I’d give anything for you to be happy again…” She would give absolutely _anything, _to not have to see him this way anymore.

Malcolm didn’t respond to the sentiment. He just stared down at his lap. They sat there together in silence. Ainsley felt miserable, trying to wrack her mind on what to do. She certainly couldn’t call their mother…Malcolm would never forgive her for it, and truth be told she was sure she would help at all if she got involved. She could call Gil…still, Malcolm would be mad at her for worrying him. But he was getting so sick— if she didn’t do _something _he was just going to get worse. She was still trying to figure out what that something was going to be, when her eyes caught on him and she turned.

The entire time she’d been thinking, she’d absently kept running her hand up and his arm, still trying to soothe him. She looked at him now, and realized he’d started to doze off. His head was dipping more and more, and his eyes were staying closed longer, like he’d been doing on the couch. At first she thought he’d gone to sleep entirely, but after almost thirty seconds, he got them open just a little crack. His stare was even foggier than before. His head was dipping and swaying severely. She hesitated, trying to think. After some deliberation, she leaned over and wrapped both her arms around his, instead. “C’mon…” she breathed, keeping her voice low.

He mumbled an incoherent reply. It might have been an agreement, it might have been an objection, she didn’t know. She wasn’t even sure _Malcolm_ knew. She helped him up. It should have been much harder, given how little strength he could offer, and yet she did it easily. She got him up and he staggered; she had to step to the side and brace him against her shoulder as he all but sagged into her. “It’s okay,” she automatically reassured. Malcolm was trying to figure out how to get his feet underneath him again. He was having more difficulty keeping his head up, keeping his eyes open. He was losing the battle against falling asleep.

“’m…I can’t…” His lips were barely moving as he struggled to talk.

She went slow, so he could stumble along with her. She didn’t head for the couch. Instead, she was leading him to his bed. Malcolm kept mumbling words she couldn’t make out. She grimaced, feeling horrible, but still dragging him where she needed him to go. “You’re okay,” she breathed, her voice noticeably weaker. “We’re almost there.”

Malcolm managed to get his eyes just a little bit open again. She cringed when she heard him start objecting clearer. “Nnn…’ve gotta…keep…moving…can’…stop…” He tried to straighten up, tried to turn around or at least stop, but now she was using her strength against the fact he had none. She wound her arms tighter around his and began to cart him towards the bed faster. He attempted to shrug her off but he couldn’t. She started to lower him down, but he shook his head, trying to resist and stay sitting up. “Ains…’ve gotta…I can’ lay down, I needta…lemme back up…”

She cringed when she grabbed his shoulders and pushed him down to the mattress, ignoring his attempts at struggle. She had to make an effort to get her voice out through the lump in her throat. “You’re okay…” she repeated, her voice cracking. Malcolm whined. He reached out, grabbing onto her shoulder and fisting his fingers hard into her shirt. Still, she forced him down. When his head hit the pillow, it dropped like a fifty-pound weight. She knew he wouldn’t be able to get back up. “You’re okay, Malcolm; you’re just going to sleep for a little bit—”

“N—…’ve gotta get up ‘ve gotta— I can’ lay down, stop— _stop, _I wanna get up…!” She could see how hard it was for him to speak, even when the effort produced a mostly-intelligible speech. She could barely understand him yet he was trying so hard. She could tell that if he had the awareness to, he would be shouting. He would be mad. But the more he struggled to speak, the more she realized something else too— something that made her stomach churn even more violently. He was getting _scared. _

His breathing was hitching. He was hanging onto her tighter. She had to lean over him to push him fully down against the pillow and when she did, and when he looked up at her, even though his eyes were barely open, she could clearly see the fear that was there. He was scared at the thought of going to sleep. He was _terrified. _His voice got a little louder when he begged: “Ainsley…keep m’up— ‘ve gotta keep me up, please keep m’up…” His voice was shaking like his hands were.

“Malcolm, I can’t let you stay up like this,” she murmured weakly. The guilt was ripping her heart to pieces, as she watched Malcolm try so hard to keep his eyes open— to try to get back up. But suddenly it was like his body was too heavy and he didn’t have the strength. He was stuck on his back, staring up at her pleadingly. Desperately. Her throat was starting to get hot. “You have to sleep…” She pried his fingers off of her. The second she did, he was reaching up with his _other _arm to grab onto her _other _shoulder. “I know you don’t want to and I’m _sorry, _but Malcolm you _need _to sleep. You _need _to let yourself sleep.”

“I…don’…I _can’_…keep me awake, you need t’…help m’ stay awake…” he rambled.

She choked back a hard swallow, shaking her head and cringing as she pried _that _hand off, too. This time, he didn’t try to grab her again. His arm dropped onto his chest and stayed there, lifeless. He was trying over and over to get up but all he could manage was arching his back a fraction of an inch at a time off the mattress. She planted one of her hands on his shoulder, ensuring he’d stay down. He was shaking his head from side to side. “You’ll feel a lot better when you wake up,” Ainsley croaked, feeling absolutely horrible. And feeling even worse when he looked at her with a half-aware look of bleary betrayal. “I’m just trying to help you, Malcolm,” she tried weakly.

He fumbled, dragging one of his arms over and trying to grab onto her wrist, so he could get her off. He couldn’t put any effort behind his grip. He just pawed at her weakly, and pathetically. “Ains…Ains— _please_…please don’ let m’ sleep…please— Ains, don’…don’ le’ me…keep m’ awake, Ainsley, pl’se keep m’wake…”

She ducked her head, refusing to look at him. He continued to beg weakly, but the longer he tried, the more unintelligible it grew. The quieter he grew, the less it made sense. Ainsley was biting down hard on her lower lip, trying not to sniff to or show that she was beginning to cry. She kept her hand on his shoulder to resist any of his efforts to move, but she reached out with her other. She grabbed his hand and held it. It was limp in her grasp, but she squeezed it reassuringly, drawing her thumb back and forth over his skin. Trying to soothe him to sleep like she’d almost done on the floor of the kitchen.

He kept mumbling and whining, so quiet and slurred that his lips weren’t even moving anymore. In reality, it didn’t last very long. But it seemed so much longer, to her. She hated hearing him sound so scared and panicked. She hated knowing that she was the reason he felt this way. She wanted to cover her ears, but it was the most she could do keep her eyes averted and wait it out. She waited until he fell silent. She waited until she was sure it was through. She waited until there was absolutely no chance he was still awake.

Once the silence had reigned long enough, she finally tore her gaze away from the corner of the room and looked at her brother. Her heart broke, when she saw how relaxed he was. He was finally asleep and this time he was _staying_ asleep. His breathing was deep and even…he looked about five years younger. He looked so much _happier. _But she knew he wasn’t. She knew that when he woke up he would be furious with her. Even _if _she’d only done it to help him. He would be less sick. He would be happier.

But it was all hollow. Because she knew those reasons wouldn’t be enough for him.

There was no triumph when she looked at her brother, finally asleep. Only empty sorrow that it had come to this.

Her eyes flickered to his hair. Usually, he kept it neat and smoothed back. After days of neglect, it was unkempt and everywhere. With a heavy heart, she reached out and tried to fix it as much as possible into the way he usually had it. He was so asleep that he didn’t even rouse at her touch. She got it to look slightly better. She pulled back and stared at him despairingly for a couple more heartbeats. Until she eventually braced herself and stood. She grabbed the covers, shifting them out from underneath him so she could tuck him in. She made sure he was comfortable. That his head wasn’t tilted awkwardly.

Once she tucked him in, she set about the apartment. She cleaned the kitchen, clearing off days of mugs that had been left out, probably having once contained coffee, in the effort to keep himself up. She cleaned the sink, clearing out all his vomit. She set the couch back up and rearranged the pillows. She wiped the counters. She started a load of laundry. She even started to arrange for groceries to be delivered, given that there had been next to nothing in the fridge. She finally turned off all the lights.

She did all of this, in the hopes she would feel as though she was actually fixing the situation.

But she knew it was all tape and bubblegum. She hadn’t actually fixed anything. She’d just gotten him to sleep. _This _time. After so much effort.

She kept glancing over at her brother as she worked. He wasn’t moving a single muscle.

She ended up staying. She debated for a while. But she couldn’t leave him. She grabbed a spare blanket and laid on the couch. She curled up on her side, ducking her head. She was tired, but for the longest time she could nothing but stare off into space. Her chest felt like someone was carving into it. She tried not to let it happen, but she felt her throat start to burn again…this time along with her eyes.

She hated this. She hated _everything_ about this. She had no idea what kind of thoughts kept him up…deterred him from sleep so severely. Created the fear she’d seen in his eyes, even when he was more than half asleep. She couldn’t even begin to imagine, she was sure. The horrible reality of their lives was staring her in the face…it pained her beyond belief, and she was the farthest removed from it, out of all of them. To be right in the thick of it? She had no idea what it was like to be Malcolm. So she tried to give him the benefit of the doubt and understand, but when things like this happened, what was she supposed to do?

She closed her eyes and curled up tightly. She pulled the blanket tighter over herself.

She felt like she couldn’t do _anything. _She _always _felt like she could _never_ do anything.

This was a gaping wound. An injury that was bleeding out.

All she’d done was put a band-aid on it.

Just like she always did.


End file.
